


as a feather in the stream

by zauqo



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Character Study, Family Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Harvard Era, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauqo/pseuds/zauqo
Summary: “You have no idea what that's gonna mean to my father,” Wardo says quietly, staring at the masthead.“Sure I do,” says Mark, because he does.Or, Eduardo and his father, through Mark’s eyes.





	as a feather in the stream

**Author's Note:**

> For purposes of this fic, I'm assuming that Mark and Eduardo met at the beginning of Mark’s sophomore year (that is, a few months before the movie starts). I'm also assuming that Mark and Erica broke up in late November of that year, which is what I'm getting from the dates stated in the depositions? Also, please just ignore the fact that _The Sopranos_ was on hiatus in September 2003 irl, lol.
> 
> Many MANY thanks to Mark, Allie, and Zia.
> 
>  **warnings:** alcohol use, swearing, family angst

Eduardo Saverin's dorm room is small— just a single, nothing compared to Mark's suite in Kirkland— but it's nice, Mark thinks. There's a poster of the moon on the wall; a little schmaltzy for Mark's taste but not an objectively bad piece of decor. There's a bookcase filled with books about business and economics, and a mahogany desk strewn with papers. 

Eduardo flops down on the bed, still wearing in his dress shirt and slacks, and Mark takes a seat at the desk.

"Want to play cards or something?" asks Eduardo. "Chess? Candyland?"

Mark shrugs and picks up a framed photo off the desk— a chubby little kid, on a beach with what Mark assumes are his parents. "Is this you?"

"Huh?" Eduardo glances over, cranes his neck to see what Mark is looking at. "Oh, yeah, in Brazil," he laughs.

Mark nods. "Chess," he says.

"What?"

Mark sets down the photo. "Let's play chess."

***

To Mark's surprise, Eduardo wins.

"We can play again," he offers, but Mark shakes his head. They're sitting on the floor, the chess board between them. It's not that Mark's a sore loser, it's just that it's frustrating, because he _could_ have won, if he'd just done a few things differently. He's good at chess. He always wins at chess.

"Listen, Mark, I've been playing since I was a kid; I've been in tournaments and stuff; I..." Eduardo trails off. "Seriously, let's play again."

"What, so you can let me win? No thank you." There's a pause. "What kind of tournaments?" Mark asks then, curious in spite of himself.

"Just ones around Florida and stuff," says Eduardo, with a shrug. He seems almost embarrassed.

"Did you win?"

"Sometimes." Eduardo shrugs again. "I— I played against a grandmaster once when I was thirteen and won; that was cool."

"Shit," says Mark. He frowns, wonders if maybe it _wasn't_ a fluke that Eduardo beat him just now.

"Yeah. I mean, it wasn't really a big deal, but my parents were proud, I think." Eduardo slides the pieces off the chess board and folds it up, puts it away.

"Well of course they were; they're your parents," Mark says dismissively, scooping up some pawns and tossing them into the box.

Eduardo looks up at him, a strange expression on his face. "Yeah," he says vaguely. "Yeah, except my father doesn't—" He breaks off, shrugs. "I don't know. You're _sure_ you don't want a rematch?"

"I'm sure," Mark says.

 _Your father doesn't what?_ he's about to ask, but— 

Erica told him once, after a fight, that he's oblivious to social cues. But he isn't. It's just that, well, sometimes he doesn't care enough to pay attention to them.

This time he pays attention. He doesn't ask.

 

*

 

Mark has known Eduardo for a month before Eduardo mentions, quite casually, that he made 300 thousand dollars over the summer, betting on oil futures.

"Are you serious?" asks Mark.

"It isn't really very... I'm just a nerd about the weather," says Eduardo, looking away. "If you can predict the weather, you can predict the price of heating oil, and I— I made a couple hurricane predictions that the rest of the market hadn't quite picked up on, I guess."

"Shit. How'd you get into it?" asks Mark. 

"The weather?"

"No." Mark gestures vaguely. "Betting on stuff."

"Oh. My father," says Eduardo stiffly. "He's more interested in insider trading than meteorology, but, you know. Similar principle."

"Insider trading?"

"Regulations are more lax in Brazil," mumbles Eduardo. "And my father has contacts, so he's pretty knowledgeable, and..." He trails off. He seems uncomfortable with the subject.

"My dad's a fucking dentist," says Mark. "The only things he's knowledgeable about are, like... teeth and bad jokes."

Eduardo glances up at that, and gives Mark a tiny smile. "Your dad sounds cool," he says.

"I guess," says Mark. "For a dad."

"For a dad," Eduardo repeats, softly, and that's that.

 

*

 

It's a Sunday evening in late September, and Wardo's at Mark's dorm to watch _The Sopranos._ Mark doesn't care much about the show, never cares much about pop-culture phenomena, but Eduardo likes it, so whatever.

They sit on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between them, and Mark goes on his laptop while Wardo watches the show.

"I always wonder how accurate this shit is," says Dustin, entering the room and leaning over the back of the couch to grab a handful of popcorn.

"Probably not very," Mark says, eyes on his laptop screen.

"I don't know, actually," says Eduardo. "My father has connections to the Brazilian mafia and honestly this seems kind of similar."

Mark looks up from the computer, glances at Eduardo, whose eyes are fixed on the TV, then at Dustin, who's gaping at Eduardo.

"Dude," Dustin says after a moment of stunned silence, leaning even further over the couch, "did you just say your father has connections to the fucking _Brazilian mafia_?"

"He's not like... _in_ it," says Eduardo. He frowns, and pops a piece of popcorn in his mouth. "But he knows people."

"Holy shit," says Dustin. "Dude, that's fucking badass!"

"He used to threaten me with it when I misbehaved," says Wardo, his frown deepening.

Dustin laughs. "Incredible," he says. "Dad goals."

Eduardo's mouth twists, like maybe he disagrees, and he shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

Dustin doesn't seem to notice. 

Mark does.

 

*

 

It's late October, and Mark and Eduardo are having dinner in the Kirkland dining hall. Dinner is lasagna, and Wardo is telling some anecdote from his childhood about his mother and his sister; Mark isn't paying much attention.

"Mark?" says Wardo.

Mark glances over. "Hmm?"

"You're zoning out."

"I'm listening."

"You are?"

" _Yes_."

"Okay," Eduardo says, like he's skeptical but knows better than to argue. "So anyway, my mom got out of the car, and—"

Mark tries to care, he really does, but somehow all that comes out of his mouth when the story is finished is, "Wardo, what's up with your dad?"

"My— he wasn't there; I think he was on a business trip," says Eduardo, frowning.

"No, I meant. What's up with him in general," Mark says.

Eduardo looks confused. "In general?"

"Are you, like, estranged or something?" Mark prompts.

And Wardo's eyes narrow. "No," he says tightly, after a moment. "We're not estranged."

Mark shrugs. "I said 'or something.'"

"We get along fine, actually," says Eduardo, lowering his gaze and prodding at a piece of broccoli on his plate.

Mark waits for him to look back up, but he doesn't, and Mark feels a flash of something. Maybe regret. Maybe annoyance. It's hard to tell.

"I should go," Wardo mutters, setting down his fork.

"Go where?" asks Mark.

"To my dorm; I have to study," says Wardo. He stands up abruptly, grabs his book bag, turns to leave.

"Wardo, stop," says Mark.

Eduardo stops. Mark knew he would.

"Sit down," Mark tells him.

Wardo lets out a frustrated little breath, then drops his bag and sits back down at the table.

"You're upset because I mentioned your father," Mark says.

Eduardo stares at Mark for a moment, then shakes his head. "Why are you like this?" he asks.

Mark shrugs. "Like what?"

"Like— like _you_ ; I don't know, just—" Eduardo picks up his fork and stabs at his lasagna. "My father and I get along fine," he repeats, this time seemingly more to himself than to Mark. Which is fine. It's bullshit, but it's fine; if Wardo wants to lie to himself, Mark isn't going to stop him.

"Okay," he says. "Well. Now I know."

Wardo nods. "Now you know." He offers Mark a weak smile then, like he regrets making a fuss. Which, well, Mark regrets bringing up his dad, so he guesses that they're even.

They finish eating, and walk back to Kirkland, and play video games till dawn. 

 

*

 

It's mid-November, the middle of midterm season, when Wardo shows up at Mark's dorm at two in the afternoon, in a three-piece suit and completely, utterly wasted.

"Hey," Wardo says, when Mark opens the door. "Uh... where's Dustin and Chris and... shit, what's that other guy's name?" Wardo pinches the bridge of his nose and stumbles forward a little.

"They're all at class," Mark says, catching Wardo's arm to keep him from toppling over. "You look like shit."

"I'm drunk."

"Yeah," says Mark. "I can tell." He frowns. "Come in."

He guides Wardo into the suite and over to the couch, and Wardo collapses into the cushions with a groan.

"You okay?" Mark asks.

"No," says Wardo. "You got a beer?"

"I'm out," Mark lies.

"Shit." Wardo leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rests his face in his hands.

Mark stands there in front of the couch, fiddling with the pull-string of his hoodie, and wonders what the fuck he's supposed to do. "What's wrong?" he asks at last.

"Nothing," Wardo says into his fingers. "Just." He looks up. "I fucking hate my father."

"I thought you said you get along fine," says Mark wryly, crossing his arms.

"Well, we don't," says Wardo. "We never have." His voice kind of breaks, and Mark looks away, wishes he hadn't given into the urge to be a smartass.

"Okay," he says. "So you hate him."

Wardo nods miserably. "He emailed me." He presses his hands to his face again, and sighs. "Shit, Mark. I go to Harvard," he says. "I'm president of the Harvard Investors Association, I have a 3.9 GPA, I'm making good money in stocks. But am I doing enough to _distinguish_ myself? No, I'm not, of course I'm not; not according to him."

"What does he want you to do, join an a cappella group?" Mark asks.

Eduardo laughs weakly. "Shit if I know."

"Well then stop trying to do what he wants," says Mark. "Stop trying to always do what other people want."

Wardo laughs again, a bitter, broken laugh. "I _like_ doing what other people want," he says.

"I know you do," Mark replies, though he's never really thought of it like that before. He just knows that Wardo is a people-pleaser, possibly to an unhealthy, maybe-he-should-be-in-therapy extent.

"It feels good," Eduardo goes on.

Mark doesn't respond, just sits down next to Wardo on the couch. Wardo glances over.

He smells like cheap beer, and looks like he's about to cry, and Mark feels so, so fucking ill-equipped to deal with this, to offer comfort or reassurance or whatever it is that Wardo needs from him right now.

Then Wardo scoots closer, and puts his head on Mark's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says into the fabric of Mark's hoodie. "I'll leave soon." 

"No," Mark says hoarsely. "Wardo, you don't have to leave."

Wardo doesn't answer right away, just sniffs, and inhales shakily. "Thanks," he says at last.

"For what, being completely unhelpful?"

"No," mumbles Wardo. "For being here."

 

*

 

It's winter break, and Mark has been spending every waking minute working on theFacebook. Eduardo calls him all the time, and Mark answers, occasionally, when he's not too busy. Wardo talks about inane pop-culture bullshit and the current price of heating oil and what he had for dinner. It's all very Wardo, and very boring, to be honest, but it provides a nice background hum as Mark codes, so he doesn't mind.

 ** _Happy new year_** , Wardo texts at midnight on January first, and Mark smiles.

 ** _You too_**.

***

Five hours later, he wakes up to another text from Eduardo. **_I want to go back to school early_** , it reads.

 ** _It's 5am, i was asleep_** , Mark replies, though he isn't really annoyed, just tired.

 ** _Sorry_** , is Wardo's response, about two seconds later.

 ** _Its fine_** , Mark tells him. He sits up in bed. **_Why do u want to go back_**.

It's a few minutes before Wardo replies, and Mark is almost asleep again when the message arrives: **_My family is driving me crazy_**.

Mark smiles a little, rolls his eyes. **_Me too_** , he texts. **_My sisters_**.

He's joking, and he's under the impression that Wardo is too, but then comes Wardo's response: **_I looked it up though and dorms are closed until January 17 unless you have prior permission to be on campus, no exceptions_** , he says.

Which means that Wardo... did research on this? Like he _actually_ considered going back early? Mark frowns down at his phone.

He hesitates, then texts, **_Is it ur dad?_**

Eduardo doesn't respond, and Mark decides he overstepped a line. 

He goes back to sleep.

***

When Wardo calls that afternoon, Mark picks up.

"How's theFacebook?" is the first thing Wardo asks.

"Working on it as we speak," says Mark, and he updates Wardo on the coding he's been doing. "What about you, how are you?" Mark remembers to ask then. Erica always said he never asked. Fuck her.

"Good," says Wardo. "I'm good." He makes no mention of the morning's texts, just launches into a description of some movie he saw yesterday and how he thinks that Mark would like it. Mark doubts it, to be honest.

"Mmm," he says noncommittally. "How's your family?"

"Fine," says Wardo, after a pause.

"But your dad's being a douchebag," Mark says. It isn't really a question, just a statement of something that Mark knows to be true but Wardo hasn't acknowledged yet.

There's another pause. Then Wardo says, "Yeah. I guess. Kind of."

"What's he doing?" asks Mark, closing his computer and leaning back in his chair.

"Oh, you know, just the usual bullshit," Eduardo says brittly. "Implying I'm a failure. Comparing me to his colleagues' kids. Ignoring me. Whatever."

For a second, Mark thinks of his own parents, who brag about him and his sisters every chance they get, and insist on family game nights, and tell him he can do whatever he sets his mind to. It's annoying, sometimes, but shit. "What's your mom say?" he asks.

Wardo snorts. "She never argues with him."

"That's dysfunctional, Wardo," Mark says somberly, because it is.

But Wardo just lets out a tired sort of sigh, and mutters, "It's fine. It's okay. I'm used to it, I guess."

Which— fuck, Mark's not sure how to respond. He fiddles with a pen on his desk, wonders if there's a polite way to say that no, it's not fucking okay for your dad to treat you like shit and your mom to not defend you, of course it's not okay, what the fuck? Except he's pretty sure there isn't one, so he doesn't respond, just sits there in silence and marvels that it's possible to feel so much hatred toward a man he's never met.

"Okay, well, I'll let you get back to theFacebook," Wardo says suddenly. "I'll talk to you later."

"No, Wardo, I didn't—"

"I'll talk to you later," Wardo repeats, this time which such pointed finality that even Mark can't really argue— If Wardo doesn't want to talk about his fucked up family, Mark isn't gonna force him to; he's not an asshole, not about shit like this.

So they say goodbye and hang up, and Mark sits there at his desk, staring at his phone, for a long, long time.

 

*

 

It's February, they're in Mark's dorm, and the site is finally finished.

"It's ready," says Mark.

"It's ready?" Wardo sounds surprised.

"Yeah."

"Right now?"

"That was it," Mark says. He presses a few keys. "And here's the masthead."

"You made a masthead," says Wardo, leaning over Mark's shoulder to see.

"Yeah."

" _Eduardo Saverin, Co-Founder and CFO_ ," Wardo reads. 

"Yeah."

"You have no idea what that's gonna mean to my father," Wardo says quietly.

"Sure I do," says Mark, because he does.

He glances over at Wardo, who's still gazing raptly at the screen.

"When's it gonna go live?" Wardo asks.

And Mark smiles. "Right now."

 

*

 

February passes, and it's March, and Mark is working on his CS homework when he gets a call from Wardo.

"Hey," he says.

"Mark, are you busy?" comes Wardo's voice.

"I have a CS lab."

Eduardo is silent on the other end of the line, and Mark can practically hear the disappointment on his face.

"No, I'm not busy," Mark sighs after a moment.

"Can you come to Eliot?" asks Wardo. He sounds— stressed? Angry? "I need you to help me find something."

"Find what?"

"My ring."

"Your ring?"

"Yeah, my— it's gold? I always wear it? Can you just come?"

Mark shrugs. "Okay," he says, closing his computer. "Yeah. I'm coming."

***

Wardo is wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants when Mark arrives at his dorm, which is probably the most casual Mark's ever seen him.

His eyes are red-rimmed, like he's been crying, and his hair is all tousled.

"Mark," he says, with an unsuccessful attempt at a smile. "Thanks for coming; I've looked everywhere, but I just, you know, I thought a second set of eyes..."

***

They search for maybe half an hour with no luck: under the nightstand, behind the bookshelf, inside the fucking printer.

Finally Eduardo sits down on his bed and runs his hands through his hair. "Fuck," he says, staring up at the ceiling. "I give up."

"It's just a ring," says Mark, leaning against Wardo's desk. "Why do you even care about it, anyway?"

"Because," says Wardo. He sighs, and then: "My father gave it to me."

"You hate your father," Mark points out.

Eduardo looks over at him. "No I don't."

Mark shrugs. "Okay, well, he hates _you_ , so who gives a shit about his ring?" he tries.

Immediately, Eduardo's face transforms— he presses his lips together and his chin starts to tremble, shit, like he's about to cry. But he doesn't. Instead, he says, very softly, very evenly, "Fuck you, Mark. I shouldn't have asked for your help."

Mark blinks. A long moment passes in silence. Then Mark goes over and sits down by Wardo on the edge of the bed. 

Eduardo looks away, and sighs deeply, but doesn't tell him to leave.

"That was shitty of me," Mark says.

"He doesn't hate me."

"I know."

"He called me tonight."

"That's good," says Mark, nodding.

Wardo snorts. "No, it wasn't." He opens his mouth like he's about to say something else, then closes it.

Mark waits.

"He made me angry," says Wardo at last, quietly. "He made me angry so I took off the ring and fucking threw it across the room. God," he says, shaking his head, "why am I so fucking _childish_?"

"Everyone does stupid shit sometimes," says Mark, punching Wardo lightly on the arm.

Wardo glances over, with a grateful sort of smile. 

"Come on," Mark says then. "Let's find your stupid ring."

***

And they do find it, eventually, when Mark picks up one of the dress shoes lying under Wardo's desk and hears something rattle inside. He flips it over and out drops the ring, right into his outstretched hand.

"Wardo," he says, holding it out, and Wardo looks up.

"Shit," he says. "Mark—" 

He grabs the ring and shoves it onto his finger without taking his eyes off Mark's face. "Thank you," he says.

"Sure," shrugs Mark.

"Mark, I'm serious, thank you so much," says Wardo, so earnestly that Mark feels kind of embarrassed.

"Next time, don't throw it across the room," he says with another shrug. "Just... I don't know, scream into your pillow. Or call me or something."

Wardo nods, and smiles, and says, "I will."

 

*

 

But things get busy after that, with Facebook and Sean and moving to California, with meetings and arguing and the fucking frozen account.

Wardo arrives back in Palo Alto after Peter Thiel's angel investment, and he's staying at the house overnight. He'll be signing the contracts the next day, the ones Mark prefers not to think about, but tonight it's like old times, like a night spent in one of their dorms. Mark is working on code and Eduardo is sitting on the ground, his back against the leg of Mark's desk, nursing a beer. They're not really talking about anything in particular, just... being. It feels comfortable. Familiar.

Then, suddenly, Wardo speaks up. "My father is pissed at me," he says tiredly.

"Why?" Mark asks, without looking away from his screen.

"Because he says only an idiot would quit an internship with Lehman Brothers to chase after a pipe dream."

"Facebook isn't a pipe dream," Mark retorts, scowling at the suggestion. "It's real, and it's cool, and it's gonna be worth millions."

"My father doesn't think so," mumbles Wardo. "He thinks it's a waste of time and probably doomed to fail."

Mark stops typing.

"Well, shit," he says, glancing down at Wardo, who's staring up at him. "Shows he doesn't know what he's talking about."

Eduardo smiles sadly. "Yeah," he says. "But he's... this is how he is. This is how he's always been, ever since I was a kid. I—" He shakes his head. "I hate him."

Mark takes a sip of Red Bull and leans back in his chair. "I know," he says.

Then Wardo lets out a shuddering breath. "But Mark," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, "I love him, too."

Mark frowns, and thinks of something Sean said once, about how Eduardo's like a needy kid who always has to feel important. For a second, Mark wonders if maybe Sean was wrong, if maybe Wardo just wants to be— well, loved, or something stupid like that. Accepted. Approved of.

"God, I always fucking listen to him," Wardo bursts out, covering his face with his hands. "I don't know _why_."

"Me neither," says Mark.

And he goes back to coding.

 

*

 

*

 

*

 

Years later, when Eduardo is suing Mark for 600 million dollars, there's a moment during the depositions, a moment where—

Well, first Eduardo says that he was Mark's only friend. Which is bullshit, of course, plain and simple. But then Eduardo spins around in his chair so his back is to the table— melodramatic as ever— and adds, softly, "My father won't even look at me."

And that throws Mark for a fucking loop. He feels something rear up in his chest, something like anger at Eduardo for still giving a shit about his father, for always giving a shit about everything, about everyone. He scowls to himself, and focuses on this anger, clings to it, because it's more comfortable than the other feelings threatening to overpower it— the pity, the regret, the desire to grab Eduardo by the shoulders and shake him and tell him that his father is an asshole who never deserved him.

  


( _Neither did you_ , says something inside him, quietly. _You never deserved him either._ )

  


So the anger is safer, and Mark lets it fill him up. And when Eduardo finally turns back around in his chair, Mark meets his eye, and glares.

Across the table from Mark, Eduardo doesn't glare back, just stares at him, his expression annoyingly blank.

And despite his best efforts, Mark feels his anger falter a little. 

_My father won't even look at me_ , Wardo had said, and Mark finds himself wondering, how long? Months? Years? Since the fucking dilution? Holy shit.

"In late November I got the email from Mark telling me to come out for the millionth member party," Eduardo is saying, and Mark shuts his eyes, feels the anger flare back up.

Only this time it's toward himself.

***

They settle the next day.

***

It's been a week, and Mark is lying in bed, his cell phone in hand. He's been typing out and deleting messages to Eduardo for the past half hour, messages ranging from cold to friendly to remorseful.

 ** _Your dad can go fuck himself_** , is what he lands on eventually. 

He presses send, and waits, and waits.

Two days later, he gets a reply: **_I know_**.

And somehow, it feels like a victory.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! You can talk to me on [Tumblr](https://sehcnamid.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/oqua12). And comments and kudos mean the world to me, especially since the fandom is so small to nonexistent now lol! <3


End file.
